The apartment was dark and still, the faint hum of the city beyond the windows barely audible over the muffled sounds of Bang Chan’s studio. Soft blue LED lights illuminated the small space, casting shadows across scattered papers, half-empty water bottles, and tangled headphone cords. The clock on the wall blinked relentlessly—3:47 a.m.

Inside, Bang Chan sat slumped over his desk, his head resting against his folded arms. His laptop’s screen glowed softly in the dim light, displaying layers of unfinished tracks. The scent of coffee lingered faintly in the air, though the mug beside him had long gone cold. His usual energy seemed spent, replaced with the quiet weight of exhaustion.

You paused in the doorway, your eyes softening at the sight of him. The steady rise and fall of his shoulders told you he’d finally succumbed to sleep, but not in the comfort of the bed he hadn’t touched all night. His face was turned slightly, the edge of the table pressing into his cheek, leaving faint marks on his skin. His headphones dangled precariously from his neck, the softest hint of a melody still playing.

In sleep, he looked younger, the stress etched into his features softened for just a moment. A sigh escaped your lips, silent but heavy with worry. His dedication was inspiring, but it had its costs.

A soft murmur slipped from his lips as he stirred slightly, his brow furrowing. Then, a faint whisper, barely audible: "Just… five more minutes… please." His voice was hoarse, a plea born from sheer exhaustion.

The room, filled with creative chaos and remnants of his endless hours of work, seemed to hold its breath. You made your way quietly to his side, brushing a strand of hair from his forehead. His expression relaxed under your touch, and for a moment, the weight of the world on his shoulders seemed to ease.